


Aep Chailleadh Minne

by LemonPetitFour



Series: The Forming of an Elf Built of Wrath [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Group Cuddling, Hair Braiding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, iorveth lets himself grieve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonPetitFour/pseuds/LemonPetitFour
Summary: Geralt watches Iorveth and the elf woman yell in each other's faces. The elf woman says that Iorveth needs to let himself grieve. Iorveth crumples under the words.He yields.
Relationships: Cedric/Ciaran aep Easnillien/Iorveth
Series: The Forming of an Elf Built of Wrath [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191905
Kudos: 9





	Aep Chailleadh Minne

“Cedric is dead.” Geralt said. He didn’t think Iorveth would care, considering how the prophetic elf had obviously been helping humans—something Iorveth obviously hated. But then he watched a muscle in Iorveth’s jaw jump, saw the sudden steel in his eye. He saw a few of the elves flanking the commander stiffen, sending looks to one another and their commander that Geralt couldn’t understand.

“We move.” Iorveth said, voice softer than Geralt had ever heard it, but held the same razor edge in tone that Iorveth always carried. The elves to his side jumped into action as the elf started stalking forward. Geralt shrugged off the behavior. To the barge.

-

Geralt could sense the desperation in Iorveth’s movements, his ragged sword swings and misled stabs. He was on edge, and Geralt couldn’t blame him. But this was so much more emotionally charged than he had expected from a commander known for his ruthlessness.

They finally sliced through every last man, pushing off the dock. And then the building had caught fire, heat licking at them, Loredo threatening innocents and taunting the witcher and Scoia’tael.

“Leave them. We need to move. Our women are prepared to die.” Iorveth had said, turning away from the scene dismissively. Geralt frowned, mind whirling.

“But I’m not prepared to let murder happen. I’m going in.” Geralt said, leaping over the edge. Iorveth cursed after the witcher, and the rest went by in a blur. Flame and heat, screaming, untying binds, jumping into the river.

Iorveth’s elves helped pull him back onto the boat, soaking wet and armor heavy with the water weight. Geralt’s hair was a mess, and he went to fix it when he noticed the boots standing in front of him. He looked up, Iorveth standing inches from him. They stared at one another, quiet.

“You saved our women. We owe you.” He said, crossing his arms. Geralt said nothing, shrugged minutely.

“It’s the right thing to do.” Iorveth said nothing.

“Vatt’ghern, your bard friend is on the ship. He demanded we let him on.” A she-elf spoke up over the silence. Geralt raised a brow, amused. Of course Dandelion had shouldered his way into yet another one of Geralt’s dangerous adventures.

Iorveth stalked away. The elves that had been around seemed to breath out, though they still looked anxious. What was upsetting them? Sure this had all been rough, but weren’t the Scoia’tael used to murder and death? Geralt stood, hair finally fixed and out of his face. He went below deck, wanting out of the heat of the sun. The scene he stumbled upon underneath was… somber.

The elves had let their captured friends out of the cells they had been in, carefully pulling supplies from bags they had brought with them, patching up wounds. And then there was Iorveth. Cradling Ciaran, holding his face and leaning over the elf. It seemed like they were forehead to forehead, breath mingling. Geralt saw the unsteady flail of Ciaran’s chest. Surely he had only minutes left.

There were a few other elves kneeled around the two, keeping a distance. Geralt peered across the barge, seeing Dandelion sitting next to some young elf woman. It seemed that he was comforting her as she shook, sitting shoulder to shoulder with her.

Geralt turned back to Iorveth, sensitive hearing picking up faint elder speech. He couldn’t make out was being said, barely made out any of the words themselves. Ciaran’s hand shook as he raised it, brushing limp fingers against the uncovered side of Iorveth’s face. And then his other hand rose, pushing off the handkerchief that covered the scar Geralt had yet to see.

Many of the elves averted their eyes, showing respect. Geralt followed their lead, listening to Ciaran’s slowing breaths and the hushed words said between the two. Geralt could _smell_ the grief in the air, had been able to since he came onto the barge. But he had assumed that it was a combination of all the different emotions the elves were feeling. He only realized, as minutes passed and the breathing of the broken elf slowed and finally stopped, that the scent was almost solely coming from Iorveth.

There was no movement for a second, everyone on the barge quiet. And then Iorveth shifted back, sitting on his ankles. He took his handkerchief from the limp hand, tying it back on.

“Remove the body.” He said, voice hollow. A few of the elves blanched, one even gasping at the words. Geralt turned to look at him, confused. To his knowledge, burials were incredibly important to elves. They were buried with loved ones, like humans, with magic rituals and herbs and food and drink for the mourning parties. Of course, the Scoia’tael couldn’t afford all of that, but to just discard the body..?

“Iorveth, please,” A woman spoke up, one of the elves who had been kneeling by him and the second-in-command, “Please, let us bury him. We can- we _should_ have him buried with… with Cedric.” She said, voice careful. Geralt watched Iorveth bristle.

“An order is an order, Thandri.” He spat. The woman stood quickly, staring down their commander. The elf’s face was blank, no emotion in his good eye.

“I know you don’t want to do that, Iorveth,” She said, eyes hard, “Just let yourse-“

“Do as I say Thandri! How dare you try to undermine my orders!” He hissed, getting in her face. The elf woman was just as aggressive back.

“Mourn, Iorveth!” She screamed, right in his face. The commander seemed to crumble minutely at the words, pain overtaking his features for a moment before it was flat once more.

“Allow yourself to mourn! We all know what happened here today, we all know you lost them both today. Let yourself mourn,” Her words softened, voice breaking, “Please. Let us take care of you. Grieve properly.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, and the touch broke Iorveth apart. He shook under her touch, Geralt watching his eye grow misty with unshed tears. Iorveth nodded.

The she-elf, Thandri, gestured at the other elves, and a few of them bustled up. One elf woman grabbed a spare cloth and covered the body from sight. A few other elves grabbed any other soft material they could on the barge. They piled whatever they found on the ground in a corner of the room, shifting things around carefully.

The elf lead Iorveth over, gently taking his bow and swords and other weapons from him, lying them down nearby. She guided him to lean on the pile, comfortable and propped up. And then Geralt watched as she tucked herself under his arm, laying next to him, pressed against him. A few other elves joined in, one even taking the liberty of sliding behind Iorveth, wrapping his arms around the commander’s waist.

Geralt watched the scene with pain throbbing in his heart. He didn’t know the full situation, but could grasp enough. Iorveth was old. Probably far older than Geralt. Who knew how long he had known Ciaran and Cedric, what he’d been through with them. Geralt now picked up on how close they had been. Partners, the three of them. And Iorveth had just lost them both, torn from him so suddenly, so violently. Geralt a _ched._ But there was nothing he could do to help. Dandelion was the comforter, not him.

Dandelion joined Geralt’s side. He coaxed Geralt into sitting down, and sat himself beside the man as he had done to the shaken she-elf earlier.

“It’s difficult,” Dandelion started, whispering to Geralt as he watched the elves comfort their commander, “Difficult to see someone so strong, who can instill so much fear in people, break.” He kept his voice low. Geralt hummed. It was difficult. He sympathized for Iorveth. He had lost lovers, but at least he still had a chance of getting them back. Iorveth… he was alone now.

An elf was able to coax Iorveth into taking the handkerchief off again. They had undone all the messy braids he had under the cloth, redoing them carefully, making sure to keep the strands back and out of the way of his good eye. The elves crooned at him, held his hands or touched his arms casually. At some point they started telling stories, passing around misadventures.

A smile etched itself precariously onto Iorveth’s face, even laughing here and there. Geralt could hear it, hear the stories of a young Iorveth mishandling a bow, an elf falling out of a tree and landing in a nekker nest—coming out completely unharmed, a dwarf who stumbled into the waterfall. And then it edged into Iorveth telling the stories. Stories of the two.

Ciaran helping him relearn to use his bow after losing his eye, how he hadn’t even been able to hit a target feet away for ages. How Cedric used to hold the commanders head in his lap, comb and braid his hair, talk about the herbs he had harvested that day. How the three of them met, joined the Scoia’tael, celebrated wins and comforted one another through losses. The air turned sad, reminiscent in a way that pulled at heartstrings. Iorveth trailed off in his latest story, looking lost.

“Commander Iorveth?” A voice called. Geralt turned to Dandelion, the man cradling his lute in his lap. The commander looked up at the bard.

“Would you care for a song? Just the lute, something simple.” Dandelion offered. Iorveth thought, the elves turning to him expectantly. And then he nodded. Dandelion smiled, holding his lute tighter, steadying his hands to play.

He strummed a careful tune, gentle and soothing. Iorveth watched appreciatively as Dandelion strummed, sliding his fingers over the strings. The barge’s residents rested comfortably, listening to the bard do what he did best. A few of the elves fell asleep to the song, huddled close to Iorveth. There were elves above deck to watch out and steer them, so Geralt felt comfortable watching everyone drift off, exhausted from their day.

Dandelion brought his song to a steady stop, having played for long enough to put half of the barge to sleep. Iorveth stayed stubbornly awake, Thandri slumbering at his side. Dandelion put his lute on a barrel, leaning heavily on Geralt, tired in his own right.

“Thank you, bard.” Iorveth’s voice caried across the barge, a low rumble. Dandelion looked surprised for a moment, but then smiled, nodding at the elf. The elf smiled back, letting his eye slide shut, finally resting.

Geralt sat quietly as the bard fell asleep on him, utterly relaxed against the witcher.

Iorveth had been through a lot, perhaps too much. And yet here he still was, tired, but resilient. No wander Ciaran had referred to him as one of the last real ones. Iorveth was an elf like no other, keeping his ideals at the forefront and fighting for them to his last breath.

This was deserved, this brief break. Being doted on by the elves he protected every day. Allowing himself to feel, to grieve his heavy losses.

Geralt leant his head back against the wood of the barge’s wall. He rested.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed. Kudos and Comments are appreciated.


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